


the lover’s club

by tobylove (orphan_account)



Series: strength in sevens [3]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Crushes, First Dates, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mean Girls References, Rewrite, so I love doing revamps, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobylove
Summary: Everything changes when Richie Tozier transfers to Derry High.“On Wednesdays, we wear yellow.”Or, my Mean Girls AU [the revamp].
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris
Series: strength in sevens [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626412
Comments: 18
Kudos: 33





	1. charming + charismatic

**Author's Note:**

> y’all..... so i’m back w another rewrite bc on my old account, this was my favorite fic. and i can’t even access it through the way back machine. so sad. so here we are! 
> 
> i’m going to try to work on this and finish no dice together, fingers crossed :/)
> 
> but as always, i hope you guys enjoy the ride!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bro my body is ready

I’ll stand by my word: I didn’t want to go to Derry when my parents first told me, and I most _certainty_ didn’t want to fucking go now.

But yet, here we were—off all our planes with the layovers and in a car steadily hurdling towards some town I don’t even fucking remember. Apparently, we used to live in Maine when McKenzie was a little kid, and I was a baby—but I was a baby, and like I said, I don’t remember. Apparently, McKenzie liked it here, but three seats of our car were occupied instead of four... and then I realized, it all boils down to her.

They wouldn’t have done this to her.

They waited until she moved out, went to college, got engaged to the first dude who asked her, to move all the way across country. They waited because they asked her if she wanted to move away from all her friends and she had said no. They asked her because they care about her. She didn’t wanna move away from everything she knew, huh. 

How do they think _I_ feel?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate my sister. It’s quite the opposite—I actually really love her, and we got along as good as a sister and a snot-nosed little brother could. But _goddamn,_ my whole life I’ve always just felt like 

(there’s no room for me)

I’m the black sheep of this family.

“Richie?” That was my mom, trying to get my attention through the rear view mirror. And I blatantly ignore her, suddenly thinking about me saying _“Idaho?”_ and John or Rudy saying back: _“No, Yudaho”_ —and suddenly wanting to burst into tears. The joke was so stupid, so fucking lame—but my friends said it and I would miss them because they were my friends. 

My whole life has been me balancing on a tightrope and juggling and eating fire and screaming _“please! pay attention to me”..._ while my parents brag about their daughter.

My mom tries again. “Rich—”

“Mom. _Puh-lease!_ Leave me alone.” Then, before I can even stop myself: “You guys are great at doing that.”

I don’t realize at first how harshly it comes out, don’t like how harshly it comes out—it even makes my dad shy away from me. I even threw in _“puh-lease”_ to lighten the mood. But they’re still shying away from me, seemingly scared of me. Like I’m a bad storm and there’s thunder coming off me.

They don’t try to talk to me anymore for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Well, forget about how I feel right? I just decide to make the best out of a situation that I initially thought was the fucking _worst_. I mean, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway, so I might as well. But I already decided that I would be super popular and make tons of friends. Because, after all, I can make anybody like me if I pester them enough. Because I’m just so charming and charismatic.

_Just kidding!_ I’m fucking _annoying_.

But here I am now in the office of Derry High, waiting for them to send me my tour-guide-thingy. When we moved to California (my favorite!) for a couple of years—all of us, including McKenzie—I didn’t have a tour guide then. And any given school in California is way bigger than this shit, which is essentially masquerading to be a school when in actuality, it’s a shed. I suddenly feel really out of place.

“You’re in good hands with him,” the office aide is telling me. She and I look about the same age. “He’s a freshman. Super quiet, kinda weird. But he’s super smart and doesn’t bother anybody.”

I love how she didn’t say “super nice”. I mean, I guess “doesn’t bother anybody” is good enough.

He comes in a couple of minutes later, his hands neatly intertwined at his waist. He gives greetings to everybody, including the aide, who I find out is named Alyssa. One thing Alyssa didn’t say to describe this kid was “super polite”—because that’s _exactly_ what he is; super straight-laced and “please” and “yes ma’am.”

After all of that, he looks at me and says: “You must be Richard.”

“And you must be my new best friend,” I say, (greeted by Alyssa’s bemused disgust) and grin, and link arms with him, and lead us out of the glass doors of the office. He doesn’t dignify me with a response until we get away from everybody—but it’s actually not the response I was thinking it’d be (a response to my antics). It’s something else entirely.

We’re walking fast. “I don’t even see why they do these fucking tours,” he says, and I slowly realize that he’s still linking arms with me. “The school is so small that you could find everything on your own in like, a week.”

“But what if somebody gets lost?” I ask. “Would they just have to be a moron, or what?”

“I’m not in the business of being rude to people,” he says. And bristles a little. “Not _intentionally_ , anyway.” Then, relaxing again: “But I mean... you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to find your way around.”

“Whew. That’s good for me. Because I’m the dumbest fucking person I know!” 

“No you’re not,” he says flatly. “Try talking to me for a little longer.”

I throw my head back and let out my first genuine laugh in about a week. He smiles at me, even showing a little teeth—and when he does, I catch a glimpse of a glittering retainer in his mouth, from previous braces.

So apparently, Alyssa wasn’t pulling my leg: he actually _is_ a freshman. Heard it from the horse’s mouth. But he’s smart enough to be taking sophomore-level classes, so thank my lucky-fucking stars we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Because I’ve already deemed us to be friends.

I find out his name is Stanley Uris. “But please,” he insists, “just call me Stan.”

I’m instantly a fan.

”So, I’ll tell you the deal about them,” Stan is telling me. “They’re the most popular kids in school.” 

Here we are at lunch, sitting at one of the group round tables even though there’s only the two of us—and in walk the beautiful people.

They’re called, Stan informs me, the Lover’s Club.

I’m, stupidly, more than a little impressed. 

There’s five of them, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that they all look like models, or some shit. All the guys are handsome, the girl is gorgeous, and—

“Why are they all wearing yellow?”

Stan shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just their thing. They do it every Wednesday. Ever since Georgie died.” And, before I think to ask for any clarification, he adds: “That was Bill’s little brother.”

I laugh. “What the fuck _is_ this, Mean Girls?”

“Richie, focus.” But, when Stan smiles a little, I consider it a victory.

I flash a smile back. “You got it, boss man. So, which one’s Bill?”

“Don’t let him see me pointing at him,” Stan says. He points to the tall brunet that’s talking—who his posse, as well as everybody in the cafeteria, it seems, perk up to listen to. The dopey-ass little smile and giddiness in Stan’s face and in his voice makes me think that he has the hots for this dude. But I mean, it makes me feel a lot better, y’know. Because...

because...

I dunno. Just because.

I try to go the route of being a hater—which I can’t fully be, because I can’t deny that this guy looks like _Adonis_. “What’s so good about Bill?”

“ _Everything’s_ good about Bill,” Stan says (almost sounding offended), his eyes never leaving the beautiful people, never leaving Bill.

I take the time to push my glasses up and fully inspect this group. They’re matching, yeah—all of them have at least one thing in their outfit that’s yellow, not counting the matching jackets that look like liquid gold. Their girl, the only girl, has on a black corduroy dress on with a yellow shirt underneath. One of the guys has on a yellow turtleneck. And—this is the part that gets me—another has on these bright-yellow shorts. 

That was the beginning of the end of me.

I’m sure I started drooling at the site of this guy.

He’s got freckles, he’s a brunet too, and he’s the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen in my _life_. He’s the shortest out of all of his friends and his jacket seems to swallow him up and he’s so sweet and innocent looking. And he’s _nothing but legs._ I’m almost _positive_ he wore those shorts to show them off, how smooth and toned they are. He laughs at something Bill said—and I’m sure I fell in love. 

Okay, so the reason it makes me feel better that Stan has a(n obvious) thing for Bill is because I kinda like dudes. Cool? Okay. Good deal. Well, except it’s not really a _“kinda”_ and more like a _“all I’m romantically and sexually attracted to is dudes and I’ll never tell my parents because I feel like they already hate me enough.”_ In California, I had a boyfriend named Dakota. He was short and brunet... and, with some dismay, I’m quickly realizing that I have a type. But anyway—The Story of Richie and Dakota goes like this: all was going good until Dakota came up to me one day and told me it was over, and I went home and cried and blasted Tainted Love by Soft Cell on repeat until I got tired of hearing it.

But the only thing Tainted about little Freckles here is how much he’s running through my mind with those long, long legs. 

I turn to Stan. I fan myself like it’s burning up in the cafeteria. Unsurprisingly, predictably, I say: “ _Whew!_ _Hot_ _damn_. What’s Lil’ Bit’s name?”

_“Who?”_ Stan asks, and furrows his brows. But then he catches on quickly, because he’s a smart cookie. “Eddie? Don’t call him that to his face, Rich. He’ll beat your ass.”

“Don’t call him what? Lil’ Bit, or by his actual name?”

Stan raises his brows. “You know which one.”

The popular people are still laughing and talking (which makes me a little sad, because I wish Stan and I could hang with John and Rudy). They’re walking closer and closer until they pass our table. And, as they’re passing, they look at us with some interest, all in sync like the Delightful Children From Down the Lane... and then continue their conversations as they pass by us completely. 

So, I didn’t come up with my marvelous plan until almost the end of the day. It was so simple, so _foolproof_ , that I’m actually surprised nobody else has thought of it before—but I even checked with Stan and he said that we’d be the first ones to try it.

“You’re crazy,” Stan tells me; crosses his arms over his chest, probably as a defense mechanism. “I’ll tell you what they’re going to do. What everybody’s gonna do: they’re going to laugh at us. They’re going to laugh our asses all the way out of the school.”

“But how do you _know?_ ” I grin. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”

Stan looks at me warily. He’s a straight-laced guy, after all; he’s a stickler for the rules. “Okay,” he relents. “We’ll give it a month. But if they don’t notice, or if they hate it and people start beating our asses or something, I _promise_ I won’t be your friend anymore.” But that  sounds like an empty threat.

“I swear it’ll work, Stan the Man. Why wouldn’t it?” 

No, seriously. Logically, why would it _not?_ There _is_ a possibility that they hate it, or people take the piss out on us—but I’m confident in mine and Stan’s abilities to win a crowd. Like I said before: I can win over anybody if I talk to them enough. That, along with the plan, we can do it. We can do it in no time. 

Well, what _is_ the plan, you may all be wondering? 

It’s simple, ladies and gents. It’s this: 

We’re gonna be a part of that damn Lover’s Club. Cause we’re going to start wearing yellow, too. Every single Wednesday. “‘Cause I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I tell Stan, “and I take it that you’re not one, either.” I even got a smile out of him—and I get the impression that he thinks the plan is gonna work, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richie: I’m a fan of Stan. A Stan stan


	2. the seven of us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double upload ;-) 
> 
> also rich you can’t just go up to everybody and call them your best friend

I’ve _always_ been one to follow the status-quo.

I go to school; I make straight A’s and go to baseball practice. I go to Chess Club after school, and synagogue on Saturdays. I listen to all the kids at school say nasty shit about me as hot tears sting in my eyes—but I ignore it, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. 

And I watch _them_. Almost as much as I watch the birds, I watch all of them and fantasize about being a Lover. 

I watch Beverly Marsh, with her marvelous sewing skills, and quick laugh, and hair like liquid fire—walking confidently past the (now jealous and bitter) girls who used to bully her. And Ben Hanscom, the head the Architecture Club; the cute and chubby boy that he used to be, now only a ghost in his handsome smile.

I watch Eddie Kaspbrak (“I’m _fully_ convinced,” Richie tells me, “that his name is short for ‘ _Edible_ ’. _Aye-yie-yie!_ ”). He’s beautiful, like Beverly, and is a cheerleader like her, too—and he’s his own star as the head of the track team. Mike Hanlon (along with Bill and Ben), I see all the time, because we’re all a part of the Literature Club. He’s the Derry Lions’ star quarterback; his smile is bright and sincere—and sometimes, if I look hard enough, or delude myself enough, I think _he’s_ watching _me_.

I watch Bill Denbrough. He’s the head of the Creative Writing Club. The head of the Lover’s Club. He has perfect eyes, the perfect smile, perfect everything. He talks slowly, and with consideration—but nobody seems to mind. His presence demands attention every time he enters a room. People shiver just from the thought of him.

Shit, _I_ shiver at the thought of him. At the thought of all of them.

And last but not fucking least, I watch Richie Tozier—whose not a part of the Lover’s Club, but is unfortunate enough to consider me his friend—with his quick wit and infectious smile, seemingly winning over everybody he talks to, having an affinity for gazing at Eddie, and listening to rock n’ roll.

He’s the one who changed everything. 

I’ll stand by my word: Richie Tozier is _fucking insane._

But I’m glad he’s here—because I guess I need a little bit of insanity in my life. Without him, I would’ve _never_ gotten out of my comfort zone. I would’ve always stuck to the status-quo.

Besides, I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend—a true one, anyway—in my entire life.

* * *

We’re sitting in his room, on a Tuesday, after his second day at school. I already see _a hell of a lot_ of his personality in here. Even though most of his things are still packed in boxes, I see a lot of vinyls and posters on the wall of Nirvana and Pink Floyd and Guns n Roses and the Cure. He’s got all his rap CDs stacked neatly on one of the boxes. A guitar is leaned up against the same one. He’s laying on his stomach, on his bed (and I’m sitting on the edge of it), looking up at me with eyes magnified through his lens. He’s got a shadow on his face from apparently having enough stubble to shave. He’s handsome.

And a _pest_.

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” he says cheerily, as if we’re getting married tomorrow or some shit. “Be mellow, fellow. Got any yellow?”

I pinch my nose. “God, stop it.”

He grins, and is graceful enough to translate his phrase from Tozerish to straight English for me. “You got anything yellow to wear tomorrow, or do we needta go shopping?”

“Uh, I’ve got a couple of shirts,” I tell him. “And a sweater. What, do you? Surely you do. It was _your_ idea.”

Richie ponders exaggeratedly. “Mmm, I think I’ve got a little something-something,” he says. He jumps off his bed and heads to his closet, opens it, rummages through the contents of it. “Most of my shit is black, but I’ve got a _little_ color. Mmm, no dice. Wait... _a-ha!”_ Triumphantly, he snatches a couple of articles of clothing and lays them on on his bed.

“There ya go, Stanny,” he says, proudly. “Yellow shirts. Read it and weep.” 

I grin despite myself. “Hm. A little bit of sunshine amongst all the dark. I’m impressed.”

“Okay, Edgar Allan Poe. Who ya tellin’?” Richie beams. “You’re gonna get a kick outta this.” He scampers back to his closet, bends over to pick something up, and holds it up for me to see. It’s a pair of Converse. “I even have yellow shoes.”

“Wow. I’m _doubly_ impressed,” I say, and I really mean it.

Richie smiles, beaming impossibly brighter—and if he’s this confident in his plan, then I feel confident in believing him that’ll it work. After all, a guy this certain can’t _possibly_ be wrong.

I feel the tension. I _see_ it, too. For the next two weeks, I see everybody’s shoulders hiked high up to their ears—even the Lovers, _especially_ the Lovers, who have regarded Richie and I on those Wednesdays with a wonder that’s both amused and wary. They’re probably trying to figure out if we’re taking the piss out them.Lord forbid they think we’re trying to do _that_. That would make the plan backfire completely.

And it seems that most of the school would want it to—seeing that they wait until Richie and I are separated to whisper _“poser”_ behind me, or write it on my locker.

But the plan doesn’t _seem_ to be backfiring. Richie has walked through the halls on both Wednesdays, clad in yellow, head up high and with jokes and a laugh that’s quick and light... so I’ve tried to follow suit. 

And I’m sure now, almost _certain_ , that Mike is watching me now—quick glances, that I thought were in my imagination before, are now long and obvious stares. It’s almost as if I’m a puzzle and he’s trying to figure me out. Beverly and Ben have smiled at us twice.Beverly even winked and waved. And—this is the one Richie gets a kick of the most—every time we see Eddie in the hallway, he’ll regard us with an almost-scared, almost-defiant look in his eyes.

“Eddie’s looking at us,” Richie says every time. He tries to sound smooth and light-hearted, but I can tell he’s giddy. From the look in his eyes, the flash of his smile. “Short for _‘Edible’._ _Aye_ —”

“Yie-yie,” I finish for him, and he snickers. 

But the _third_ Wednesday (exactly three weeks after Richie’s first day of school) is when Bill himself walks up to us. His arms are crossed and his eyes regard us cooly. Just the thought of any of the Lovers approaching us makes me want to fucking faint. But _Bill Denbrough_ approaching us makes me want to die and faint, and then die again. I look over at Richie—and for the first time that I’ve known him in almost a month, his mouth is completely fucking shut. He actually seems like he’s at a loss for words. 

Bill keeps his arms crossed, and slowly (which is not out of the ordinary, but it seems ominous now) asks us: “What are you guys _doing?_ ”

Richie and I both try to talk at the same time—both looking incredibly stupid; both (fittingly) looking like a couple of lemons.

“Bill—I—we just—”

“ _Heyyy_ , Big Bill! Uh, we—uh...”

But then, Bill does something that I don’t think either of us were expecting: with his arms still crossed, he breaks out into a smile. It’s bright and sincere and _perfect_. I feel Richie relax considerably, and that gives me the okay to do it, too. I let out a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding.

“Are you guys trying to tell us something?” Bill eggs on, still smiling.

“Hell yeah,” Richie says, smiling back. It seems like somebody switched him from OFF to back ON again. “We wanna be your friends.” 

Bill chuckles a little, his smile growing impossibly wider. “Yeah, I thought so.” 

“Oh, yeah? Well, whaddaya say? You guys gonna swipe right on Richie and Stan?”

“ _I_ want to, but let’s see what the others think,” Bill says, and he laughs again. It actually seems like Richie is... winning him over? I’m beside myself—so much, that after the shock of Bill talking to us, I’m _still_ rendered speechless. “Come eat lunch with us today. We’re all matching, after all.”

“Okay! I’m down!” Richie exclaims.

Bill looks over at me. “Stan?” he says, waiting for my answer—and by God, even though we’re in Lit Club together, I didn’t even know he knew my fucking name.

Richie beams at me. Bill is still looking at me, his light smile patient and amused. 

“Uh—yeah, sure,” I stammer out.

“Well! It’s a plan. We’ll be at a round table. I’m sure you guys will be able to point us out. So, see you then.” And, chuckling a bit at his own joke, he walks off...

...after turning back and adding, teasingly: “Don’t stand us up!”

But then he’s gone.

Both of us watch him as he becomes more and more distant in our eyesight—and even as he’s far away, Richie is still whispering. “We in this biatch,” he says, grinning from ear-to-ear. “We in Da Club.”

Which just isn’t true—yet—we can’t say things prematurely... but the thought of us potentially getting into the Lover’s Club makes me wired and excited.

I would’ve _never_ imagined I’d be sitting here with the Lovers a day in my life—but surprisingly, here we are, all of them and Richie and I and all of us clad in yellow. The seven of us. All of them seem inviting enough— _especially_ Bill. He looks really pleased. 

“So, guys, this is Richie. We’ve all seen him around,” he says. He makes sweeping motions with his arms to the both of us. I see Richie beam at the acknowledgement out of the corner of my eye. “And you all know Stan, right?”

_Do they,_ though?

They all nod their heads. Most of them smile. 

“It’s, uh, nice to finally talk to all of you,” I say, barely above a whisper. I feel a wild blush rise in my cheeks. 

Beverly is the first to flash a huge grin. “Aww dude, don’t be shy! We’re not _celebrities_ , y’know.”

“Yeah, we’re just normal kids,” Ben follows up, and rubs his shoulder. He almost looks... I don’t know. Embarrassed, maybe?

“Celebrities, maybe not, but _definitely_ our new best friends,” Richie pipes up. He had been doing really good at nonsense not falling out his mouth up until this point—and I shrink in my seat, fully expecting them to shoo us away soon... but he actually seems to be winning them over. Most of them laugh.

“We can’t be best friends yet if you don’t even know all our names,” Bill says, and smirks. He then makes the same sweeping motion towards his friends that he made to Richie and I. “So: this is Bev—”

“Pleased to meet you, Sir,” Bev says. 

“Charmed,” Richie replies (in this weird but very passable British accent), and takes Bev’s hand to plant a kiss on it. 

“This is Ben,” Bill continues. Ben smiles and shakes both our hands, but still looks wildly embarrassed. 

“Hey, Stan. Hey, Richie.”

“Hi, Ben.”

_“Hey, Haystack!”_ Richie exclaims, for seemingly no reason at all—and Ben smiles and blushes even more.

“This is Mike,” Bill says. Mike smiles warmly at the both of us; takes the time to shake Richie’s hand, and then to hold mine. He raises our hands up a bit, looks around at everybody for a split second, then raises them down again.

“Hi, Richie!” he says, smiling again. Then, his eyes stutter up to mine. “ _Hi,_ Stan.”

“The best basketball player in the land,” Richie grins. 

“Oh! Uh, it’s football,” Mike says with a laugh, correcting him politely.

“Hi, Mike,” I say. Then, waving my hand: “Just ignore him.”

“And this is Eddie,” Bill finishes off, pointing to Eddie last. “Treat him nice, now. He’s my best friend.”

Eddie looks from Richie to me and back to Richie, with his arms crossed, eyeing us both cautiously. 

“Beautiful, _beautiful_ Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie says. I look at him and see that he’s actually blushing. “I see he saved the best for last.” 

“Yes, he did,” Eddie says, getting a laugh from his friends—but he still doesn’t smile, and his eyes don’t leave Richie’s. “And _don’t_ call me that.”

And then—softening a little, he follows up, almost apologetically: “Hi, Stan.”

“Hi, Eddie,” I say politely, _really_ not wanting to get on his bad side. Richie already seems halfway there. 

But despite his rocky start with Eddie, it seems like everybody is really cool with Richie and I. We all chatter about interests that we like, things about class, things about after class. We even all share quite a few laughs (“We all Got Off Some Good Ones,” Richie would tell me later)—and I never knew how great it would feel for our laughter to mingle in with theirs. By the time it’s time to go to class, even Eddie is smiling a lot, and I consider that a good omen. 

And then, the impossible happens. We’re all splitting up, and Bill says to us: “See you guys tomorrow.” And it would be easy to think that he was talking to the other Lovers—but they’re all looking at us with the same expectation.

_“Who?”_ Richie asks. “Moi and Stan?”

Bill chuckles. “Yes, you and Stan. Dummy.” And apparently, when Bill starts taking the piss out of you, that means he _really_ likes you. 

That makes me ecstatic—and apparently Richie, too. Because all I hear about for the rest of the day is how cute Eddie’s voice is, how tiny he is, how pretty his smile and his laugh is... even as the day ends, and Richie is giving me a ride home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan: please Rich I’m begging you no more


	3. four things to learn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may as well rename this chapter: “gay! they’re all gay!”
> 
> happy thanksgiving, y’all!

So, I learn four things after the first time we hang out with the Lovers—no, literally; like, the next day. On Thursday.

Stan and I are linking arms as we’re walking to our lockers to get whatever shit that we need for the day, and to drop off whatever shit we _don’t_. The arm linking started out as a joke at first (because of Yours Truly)—but y’know what, we’ve actually made it a habit to just walk that way. Which _maybe_ we shouldn’t. I’ve already caught wind of whispers of him being my boyfriend. Whoops.

We don’t need a certain somebody _(cough, cough..._ Eddie!) taking that at face value, now do we? Wink wink.

But anyway, the Story of Stan & Richie and the Lockers goes like this: we’re linking arms; we walk to our lockers. Stan’s after mine. And when we _do_ get to his, we notice something sticking out from one of the slits. 

I think the first thing I learn—one of the fundamental things—is that Stan has a _really_ low self esteem. The poor dude needs to stop beating himself up so much. Because I instantly see him bristle at the site of that paper.

“I do _not_ need this shit today,” he says flatly—and without even having to tell me, I already know that he thinks that it’s some malicious bullshit. But whenever he unfolds the (neatly folded) paper and his eyes scan the contents of what it says... we both find out we’ve missed the mark.

His mouth is a thin line. “Is this some kind of joke?” 

“What does it say?” I jump up and down. “C’mon, Stan! What does it say?”

“I... I don’t understand,” he says simply, and hands the paper to me. “Here.”

Right off the bat, I see a bit of writing almost completely in the center of the paper, written in pen. It’s only three lines. It’s written in neat handwriting—but the words are slanted, as if this person’s a lefty.

It’s a poem.

It says: 

_ please don’t be alarmed _

_ but you’re Urisistable— _

_ with your dark, feathery curls. _

That’s the second thing I learn: little Stan the Man here has a secret admirer.

“This—it... it _has_ to be some kind of joke,” he repeats. My dear friend—always trying to use logic and reasoning... when sometimes things just don’t fit neatly into his box of rationality.

My eyes turn into half-moons and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die from laughter soon. “It _has_ to be. ‘Cause nobody in their right fucking mind would be able to write _‘Urisistable’_ and take themselves seriously.”

But damn, I feel like an asshole—because when Stan looks at me, his lip is quivering, and his eyes are brimming with tears. He crumbles the note slightly in his hands, and I don’t even think he’s aware that he’s doing it. I manually relax his hands for him.

“Aww, Stan the Man with the _Plan!_ Stop that... don’t cry! I was _kidding!_ I don’t think it’s a joke. Look, they even wrote your name all pretty on the front. Whoever it is.”

I point to the note, right where the Admirer just addressed it as _Stan ♡_ in between the neat folds. Stan looks down, almost to confirm it. 

“So you don’t think... somebody wrote this just to... fuck with me?” 

“No!” I tell him instantly. “Let’s look at the facts. One: you’re a cutie. I’m sure _tons_ of people have the hots for you. Two: somebody wants to fuck you, alright—just not the way you’re thinking. And three: if it _is_ the way you’re thinking, then I’ll personally beat their ass. Capisce?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stan says, and it makes me smile when he sounds like he’s gained his composure. “But we don’t need you getting suspended over it.”

“But I would for _you_ , dahlin’.”

“And _this_ is why people think we’re dating, Richie. You know that, right?”

“People just can’t handle the Neutron Style,” I grin (which earns a half-hearted eye-roll). “Now chin up, buttercup. You’ve got a secret admirer, we’re hanging with the Lovers today, Eddie’s in love with me—this day is just going _amazingly!_ We’re winners in my book!”

Stan chuckles. “Eddie’s _what_ now?”

I blink. “Why, I didn’t say anything about Eddie.”

“Oh, of course not,” Stan says, again trying to give me a little steam... but I can already see that he’s feeling a lot better.

* * *

And here we are a couple of hours later—we keep our word: we don’t stand the Lovers up during lunch. We’re all eating, sitting at one of the white round tables to the side, having a few chucks. Maybe little Eddie Spaghetti is warming up me—I tell a hell of a lot of jokes, and a couple of them stick. He smiles and laughs at me and even _leans against my shoulder at one point,_ and my heart goes all, **Whoa buddy! Mayday! What are we gonna do?**

I don’t know _what_ I’m gonna do.

“Aw shit,” Bev says suddenly. “You know what I just realized? It’s gonna be too cold to go to the Barrens soon.” Mike and Ben (Or, Haystack and Lebron James, wink wink) groan in agreement.

“You’re right,” Mike adds. “That really blows.”

“Not for my mom,” Eddie pipes in. Off topic, but he’s wearing another pair of shorts today—this time, coupled with a pair of knee socks (that I learn, with amusement, I find sexy). “You know she _hates_ me going down there. Thinks I’m gonna get typhoid or some shit.” 

“Can you get typhoid from swimming?” Bev asks, genuinely curious.

“You can, according to my mom!”

“I actually think you can,” Stan says in his infinite wisdom. And then, seeing how Eddie’s face scrunches up in adorable horror, quickly adds: “But what are the chances we’d catch it in this day and age?”

“Stan’s right,” Bill says, and little birdie seems to beam from the approval. “What are the odds? Besides, you know how your mom is.” He reaches over and ruffles Eddie’s hair.

“Stop it, Bill,” Eddie whines—and I hope I’m not wearing all over my face how fucking cute and perfect I think Eddie is.

Seeing from the way Ben’s smirking at me, I think I am. _Dammit_.

“We should go,” Bill says, ignoring Eddie’s whining. “One last time, before it starts snowing. We’ve never gone with Stan and Rich before, anyway. It’ll be fun.”

Finally, I butt myself into the convo. “Okay, somebody fill me in. What the hell are the Barrens?”

Mike smiles. “It’s like, this green-land area on the outskirts of town. Right by my house, actually. There’s a little lake. Everybody likes to swim there.”

“Well—if it’s so _green_ , then why do y’all call it _the Barrens?_ ” I ask, and waggle my eyebrows.

Mike laughs. “Now that, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

“That’s just what they call it, Richie,” Eddie says, and shrugs. I nod my head in resolution. That seems like a good enough reason for me.

“Well, now that you’re filled in,” Bill says, smirks a little, “what do you say? Sound like fun? Wanna go?”

“Shit, I’m down!” I say—and we all look at Stan... who blushes and shrinks a little in his chair.

“Yeah, sure. It _does_ sound fun. In since it’s up to me.”

And then the Lovers do something else that should’ve been expected, but throw Stan and I _completely_ off-guard. Well, two things actually:

1.) they give us their numbers, and 

2.) they put us in their group chat.

“It’s a date,” Bill says with finality (Stan and I are still shell-shocked), we all shake on it—and then, when lunch is over, we all split up to go to the rest of our classes.

Driving my truck to the Barrens was kind of a weird deal. There’s a janky spot—that’s not even a parking spot but you can put your car there, just so it’s not on the side of the road near the outskirts of town. I park at the janky spot that Stan shows me, and then we descend the rest of the way down to meet the Lovers—and they’re already there.

They’re stripping, with the guys taking off their shirts and pants to reveal swim trunks, and Bev with a two-piece underneath. I forgot that we were swimming. And one of the reasons that I forgot is seeing Eddie half-naked (in his swim trunks with little hearts on them), freckles splattered everywhere on his body... I wanted to do _something else_ for a second.

“Hey, nerds! You can start the party, because the main attractions are here,” I say—and by the time Stan and I walk over to the gang, my clothes are already off. Stan follows suit. But he carefully takes all of his clothes off (and _his_ swim trunks are blue, with ducks on them), and folds them neatly.

“Hey, guys,” he says simply.

“Hey, you narcissist,” Bill smirks. “Hey, Stan. So! Now that we’re all here, we can hike up to the cliff. Who wants to pair off and jump together?”

“We can’t pair off,” Ben is saying patiently, almost sheepishly. “There’s seven of us. Well, not like we could do it, anyway; we never had an even number of people.”

“You’re right. Eh, it’ll just have to be a group of three,” Bill says, smiles and shrugs. “So how are we—”

“I want Eddie,” I say quickly, and grin from ear-to-ear.

The way that Eddie’s entire face flushes is just the cutest thing _ever_. He blushes all the way up to his hairline, which I didn’t even think was possible. “No fucking _way_. Bill! _Seriously?_ ”

Bill—our new darling, slow-talking friend—looks like he can barely contain his gales of laughter. He even puts his hands up in surrender. “Hey, man. He already called dibs. I can’t fight him on it.”

“I wanna go with Stan,” Mike says, _just_ as quickly, and looks up at The Man with a slight smile. “If you _want_ to.” And goddamn—the way that he’s looking at Stan is the same way that I’m sure I look at Eddie. It makes me almost certain that Mike’s not in his right mind, because _he’s_ the one who wrote that Urisistable shit. _Almost_. It’s just a theory for now.

For a parallel, Stan blushes almost as hard as Eddie(‘s adorable ass) did. “Oh! Uh! _Yeah!_ Okay!”

“Well... I guess that just leaves you, me, and Ben,” Bill says, turning his head towards Bev—and I think maybe love’s in the air or the water, or some shit, because Ben looks just a little pissed.

“Works for me,” Bev says. “I get _two_ boys.” She giggles, blushes.

So, we hike up to the top of the cliff and break off into our pairs (well, including the _ménage à trois_ ), and Eddie actually goes with me painlessly and with no fussing at all. I want to test the waters a little bit, pun intended—so I get behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. And he... doesn’t fight me? I think that’s a good sign. A _great_ one! 

“Don’t let me die, Rich,” he says simply. 

“Got it, babe!” I lift him off the ground a bit and plunge us both off the cliff. “Okay123Go!”

“I wasn’t read— _ahhhh!_ ”

We make a huge splash and commotion as we hit the water—and I don’t realize until after we come up, that Eddie has turned around to face me. His hands are gripping my shoulders; his hair looks almost jet black from being wet. 

He’s really beautiful. 

“I wasn’t ready.” He’s pouting again, but his heart doesn’t really seem in it. He looks at me with his big, pretty brown eyes—and I almost melt there on the spot.

“You’re _soooo cute!_ ” I squeal. I try to pinch his cheeks and boop his nose, but he grabs my hands before I can.

“Fucking _stop,_ ” he says—but there’s no hard edge to it at all, and he’s blushing, and we’re staring at each other, and for a second, I have half a mind to kiss him—

We hear two deep voices screaming, the sounds mingling with each other—and when we both look up, were _almost_ too late to see Stan and Mike holding hands, before they hit the water. The splash that they make drenches Eddie and I (again), and the former lets out a cute little shriek. 

“Stan! Mike! Ya douchebags!” Eddie says, and laughs a little.

“Sorry, guys!” Mike’s eyes and guilty little smile flash on us for a moment... then he grins and splashes Stan with some water—who laughs and splashes him back. 

Then, we hear three separate _“Woooo!”_ s, as Moe, Larry, and Curly jump together—all three of them holding hands, with Bev in the middle. They make the biggest splash, because they have the most people—and Eddie _actually hugs me this time_ and buries his head in my neck, and screams again. Stan and Mike let out twin _“Oh!”_ s before we’re all drenched, but not much else. I can’t say shit... I’m so wrapped up in the smell of Eddie’s hair, how soft his skin is. 

So now, that all seven of us are in the the lake, we’re all having a good time—me splashing Bill, Bill splashing me ( _maybe_ we’re both a little too competitive), me protecting Eddie from getting splashed too much... all of us laughing and enjoying each other’s company. We stay in the lake until it gets too cold for us to stand anymore.

Later that night—after we all managed to squeeze in my truck and I took everybody home, and I ate dinner with my folks and showered, and all that shit—as I’m lying in bed, I learn Things #3 and #4.

Did I mention that Stan and I are in the group chat? It’s pinging for the rest of the night—which I don’t mind. I, myself, am a spam texter. Everybody’s just detailing how much they had fun today: 

** ♡ The Lover’s Club ♡  **

**bullet bill:** U guys I already miss u all

**bullet bill:** No homo 

**rich the bitch:** full homo big bill

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** I miss you guys too!!!!

**marshmallow:** miss u nerds too! 

**marshmallow:** no cap on the full homo tho

**Big Ben** _changed their name to_ **Haystack!**

**rich the bitch:** :0!!!!!!

**rich the bitch:** u love me

**Haystack:** :) **♡**

**Stan the Man:** Sorry I’m late. Thank you guys for being so nice to us, and letting us come along today.

**rich the bitch:** gay

**Mike & Ikes:** awww no prob stan

**bullet bill:** No prob Stan! Ur our friends :-)

**bullet bill:** @Rich: no u 

**rich the bitch:** I repeat: :0!!!!!!

**Haystack:** get rekt scrub

So, these are the two things I learn tonight: 

1.) I decide to do something. Maybe a little rash, maybe a little stupid... but maybe it’ll work. 

y _ou’ve sent a PM request to_ **Eddie** ** ✿ ! **

** Eddie  ✿ ** _accepted your request!_

**rich the snitch:** eddie

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Richie?????

**rich the snitch:** hello dahlin ;-) 

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** What stupid 

**rich the snitch:** okay so here’s the deal 

**rich the snitch:** and ur free to say to no

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Spit it out

At this point, I want to say something humorous—but I type and erase at least four different messages, because maybe trying to be funny will _definitely_ fuck this up. 

**rich the snitch:** so i really like u if it wasn’t obvi already lmao and i wanted to see if u wanted to go on a date with me? 

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Really????

 ** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Yeah sure! Okay

So that’s number three: I pretty sure I’m in love with Eddie Kaspbrak.

2.) And Thing #4 is a little shorter to articulate. As I’m laying there, replaying all of today in my head—talking about typhoid at lunch, Stan and I driving to the Barrens, swimming, Eddie wanting me to protect him—I realize something as quickly and vividly as I can recall the smell of Eddie’s hair.

So the last thing I learn (one of the fundamental things) is this: the Lovers are _really_ fucking cool. And they’re our friends.

I’m pretty sure we’re one of them now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie, in his and Bill’s PM: Richie asked me out on a date???


	4. chilly waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *tw for refs to self-harm!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might as well name this the Stanlon Chapter™️. but y’know what, i’m here for it
> 
> gonna try to upload no dice tomorrow ;-)

I hang that haiku on the cork board in my room—but I _still_ feel like it’s a huge joke.

I have a bit of wishful thinking on who I want it to be. Well—technically, it’s two separate people that I want it to be. And if I delude myself enough, both of them could be a possibility.

That damn haiku was stuck in the cork board with a pin tack—and at first, I thought of Bill and his perfect everything. In my lovesick mind it didn’t seem too far-fetched for him to have written it for me. He’s the goddamn President of the Creative Writing Club. Could it have been him?

Or could it have been Mike? 

Now, listen—I have to admit that I like the attention he gives me; how his eyes light up when he sees me. How cute it is that he thinks I don’t notice. How he talks to me like I’m somebody important. How quickly he jumped on the opportunity to be my partner at the Barrens. How he seemed to want to claim me before anybody else could. And how much fun we had... how for a second, it seemed like he only wanted to have fun with me. 

That _has_ to mean something, right?

_Oh get real,_ my mind screams at me. _It’s a fucking_ joke! _Do you_ really _think somebody cares that much? They don’t, dumbass. Nobody wants to be with an ugly loser like you._

_You think you have a chance with_ either _of them? Hahahah, ha, haha._

_What if you only like him because he’s nice, and smiled at you?_

I try to push all of this negative shit out of my head 

(fucking _STOP!_ )

as I’m walking the short distance to school. Richie keeps on ragging on the haiku; he says it’s lovesick and lame. But I think it’s cute. So I’m going to keep it.

Richie and I have only known each other for a little over a month, and we’ve already begun to make a lot of habits. We meet up by his locker everyday, then go to mine, then go to class—then he drives me home. I see him in his usual spot, leaned up against his locker. There’s not a drop of bright color in his attire today, in since it’s a Friday. He sees me and beams. 

“Stan the Man with the Plan!” he says. Well, _“exclaims”_ would be a more fitting word. God, he could’ve just kept it Stan the Man and I would’ve been fine—but he always has to go the extra mile.

But he does something weird: he hugs me. I blush—half in embarrassment, half in discomfort.

“What are you doing?”

“Hugging you! I missed you, best friend.”

We live literally down the street from each other—but I don’t remind him of this, and my body won’t let me reciprocate the hug. “Oh. Uh, I missed you too, Rich.” 

But I can’t seem to hide anything from him—because he seems to sense my discomfort and opts to link arms with me instead. “You have fun jacking off to your Secret Admirer last night?” he asks, a mischievous grin splitting his face.

“Yeah,” I say. “Almost as much fun as _you_ had jacking off to Eddie.”

“Stan the Man Gets Off a Good One! _Yow_ -za! You got me there.”

“Please don’t tell me you actually...” I start—but the thought gets trapped in my throat. We finally get to my locker—and to my surprise (and exhilaration, and slight dismay)... there’s another piece of paper jutting out the slit, as if the Admirer is using the locker as an impromptu mailbox. 

“Bro,” Richie breathes. He seems caught off-guard too, but he recovers quickly. “He strikes again! Two days in a row. This dude must be The Flash. And The Flash must _really_ have the hots for you.”

Words seem to evade me today. “So this really isn’t...” The words trail off like all my other thoughts do.

This note is slightly different, in two different ways. It still has my name on the front—but this time, written underneath my name, is this: 

_Please don’t let Richie read this one ;) it’s embarrassing_

The second way that this is different, is that this poem is twice as long as the first. I like to consider myself pretty smart—so the contents of this one give me an almost absolute conviction on who is writing these for me: 

_ I want to kiss him _

_ upon his soft, rosy lips _

_ and play in his hair _

_ Down at the Barrens _

_ I felt like a new person _

_ Being there with Stan _

Oh, God—the dopey haziness that washes over me in waves is almost overwhelming. There’s something about the uncharacteristic way that this makes me so tingly and hot that makes this exciting. I read it again. I feel like I’m going to faint.

“It’s Mike,” Richie says from behind me—and I didn’t realize that he was reading over my shoulder. I feel equal parts betrayed and guilty. “It _has_ to be.”

“How do you know?” I ask. 

_“Well,”_ Richie starts, in his ever-so loving theatrical way, “for starters, it _has_ to be someone in the Lovers Club, seeing that we all just went to the Barrens yesterday. Ben likes Bev, Bev’s still determined—she may be a lesbian, I dunno—Eddie’s head over heels for me, and I think Bill is straight? Actually? So all that leaves is little ole Mikey. And it’s _very_ obvious, from the moment I met him, that he has his eyes on you.”

I try to speak again. “But... I...”

“I’ll give him this,” Richie continues. “This one’s not _nearly_ as cheesy as the other one!” And that’s the last things he can say about it before the bell rings and we have to go to class—and there’s still a big grin on his face.

* * *

Late last night in the group chat, I saw that the Lovers have a busy itinerary for us: a sleepover, bowling, celebrating Ben and Mike’s birthdays. All of that sounds amazing—but actually having friends to do things with all the time is almost overwhelming for me. I mean, I’m _obviously_ not going to tell them no. I’m having fun. I feel wanted. Besides, I wonder

(how soft his lips are)

if Ben and Mike’s birthdays are close together. 

Apparently, the sleepover is the first on the calendar, and everybody wants to do it tomorrow at Richie’s. We’ve all agreed; his parents agreed. Everything is set. The rest of that Friday is slow and uneventful: we all have slipped into the familiarity of the seven of us eating lunch together—and then, after lunch, we all go to the rest of our classes. Richie and I ride home together, like normal... and I don’t seem to be the only one that’s preoccupied. 

“You know what I just realized?” he says, his face flushed as if he’s about to go on a rant. “Eddie’s gonna be in _pajamas,_ dude. Like, little shorts and shit, I’m sure. And I know that we’re gonna be on my home turf—but goddamn it, that’s just not fair! They know I’m gonna be weak to Eddie’s charm! _Wahhhh!_ ”

I smirk a little. “Didn’t you ask him on a date?”

Richie glances over at me at a stoplight, and blinks a little. “Yeah. Why?”

“What if he’s all over you? Like, flirting.”

_“Then I’ll just_ explode! _”_ Richie says—but the loud, jittery way he says is enough to make me laugh, and then drop the subject completely.

Friday night is pretty boring, too. It’s just the same shit in my status-quo life. It’s just Mom reminding me that it’s Dad’s turn to keep me next week, so to pack enough clothes; her and I eat dinner and watch TV together; I go upstairs and pet my African Grey, Delaney. (I love her very much.) I shower, brush my teeth, and wash my face, and head off to bed. 

I fall asleep and dream about it: Mike with pretty eyes, kissing me in chilly waters, as he plays with my hair. 

It only takes me a couple of minutes to walk to Richie’s, and I assume (correctly) that I would be the first one there. I figure, maybe in my subconscious brain that I would never tell him, that I should repay him for all of the ways that he’s positively impacted my life. So I’ll help him set up for the party. 

But when I knock on the door, I don’t see Richie’s bush of black hair and his excited face... I see his dad (who he looks very much alike). And he looks _very_ happy to see me. 

“Oh, hey!” Mr. Tozier says cheerily. “You must be Stan the Man. Rich talks about you all the time.”

“Hello, Sir—“ I start to reply, but now my curiosity is piqued. “Wait, really? What does he say?”

Mr. Tozier grins. “He talks about how cool you are. Can’t get the kid to shut up.”

How... _cool_ I am?

_No,_ my mind tells me, _you’re not cool. That’s Richie’s job. Why is_ he _saying it about_ you?

But—with horror—I see Mr. Tozier’s grin turn into a smirk. “So, are you his boyfriend?” 

“What? Uh! _No!_ No, Sir!”

“Aww, you don’t have to call me ‘Sir,’” Mr. Tozier says. “You can just call me Wentworth. Or Went.”

“Oh. Well, he doesn’t have eyes for _me,_ Mr. Wentworth.”

“Oh? Well, who _does_ he have his eye on?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. I’ve already said too much. If I say anymore, I’m sure he’ll kill me.”

“Ah! I promise I won’t tell.”

“Well, it’s our friend Eddie—”

As if on cue, Richie comes barreling down the stairs—but he still looks half-asleep and his face is stubbly. He squints at me (and I assume can see a Stan-like shape,) and smiles. “Stan the Man,” he chirps, but his voice is still groggy and raspy.

“You finally decided to wake up, ya bag of bones?” Mr. Wentworth teases—and to my delight, Richie smirks at him.

“Shut up, old man. Stan, come with me into The Wonderful World of My Room and away from my annoying father.”

“ _Annoying_ , huh?” Mr. Wentworth goes on. “I’ll remember that when _Eddie_ gets here.”

But I’m already up the stairs before he can finish the sentence—and I push Richie to his room before he can even process what his dad said.

I sit patiently on Richie’s bed (which his entire room looks complete now without all the boxes around), and wait for him to change and brush his teeth. He emerges from his bathroom in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and his glasses—so now he can finally see me.

“I guessed when I said it was you,” Richie is telling me with a grin, “so I’m glad I was actually right.” 

“It’s the hair,” I say simply.

“It’s the _hair!_ ” Richie echoes. “The beautiful, curly hair. Oh, wait—I can’t compliment you like that. That’s _Mike’s_ job.”

I blush (insanely red). “Shut the hell _up_.”

The Lovers stream in shortly after, one by one—each of them dressed down in lounging clothes, and Bev with a bag in her hands. Richie and I go downstairs to greet them and to commence the sleepover, in since seven people couldn’t feasibly (or comfortably) all fit in his room. 

“Nice place you’ve got,” Bill says, and winks. He’s in sweatpants too, and a baseball shirt—a white one, with blue sleeves. 

Eddie, as Richie guessed, is in a faded t-shirt... and a pair of shorts. (Which I’m fairly sure when I looked over at Richie that he was drooling... or well, he _might as well_ have been.)

And Michael is in a sleeveless shirt and plaid pajama pants. I’ve quickly began to notice how toned and chiseled he is, how defined his arms are, how strong he looks. He looks... uh, _really_ _nice_.

“Let’s get this party _started_ ,” Bev is saying with a grin. “I’m ready to roast marshmallows and watch the Breakfast Club. But, before that,” she reaches into her tote and pulls out two articles of clothing; hands them to Richie and I. “Stan, Richie—these are for you.”

They’re two golden varsity jackets.

_“What!”_ Richie screams. “Does this mean that we’re, like, officially your guys’ friends forever and ever?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Bill says, and laughs. “Welcome, officially, to the Lover’s Club, guys.”

The night goes without a hitch. We’ve made impromptu s’mores in the oven and turned on movies that were not even watching, because we’re deep in conversation with one another. Bill, Ben and Bev are playing Uno (Bev is winning), I’m showing Mike my bird notebook (with pictures of Delaney on the front), and Richie and Eddie are lost in their own little world. We’re all on the living room floor—but the two of them are bundled up underneath Eddie’s blanket together. Eddie’s laying on Richie’s chest, and they’re both giggling as they whisper things in each other’s ears.

Hm. It didn’t take long for Eddie to warm up to him _at all._

That charming bastard. 

And later in the evening we turn the movies off, so Richie, Bill, and Mike can play NBA 2K and an entire plethora of other games. And Ben, Eddie, Bev, and I are playing Smash or Pass—and Ben is even a good enough sport to let us all have matching nails. 

But then, it gets to the point where Mrs. Tozier says to keep it down in since they’re headed to bed (Richie, Mike, and Bill are being a little rowdy, accusing each other of cheating)... so we all decide to wrap it up and call it a night, too.

Everybody finds a nice, comfortable spot to lay on the living room floor—and one by one, everybody seems to fall asleep. Bill is laid flat on his back, his head turned slightly to the side, breathing deeply. Ben and Bev are not far away, and even though they’re not cuddling, Ben seems to have subconsciously scooted closer to her. Richie has flat out wrapped his arms around Eddie—and the latter is snuggling Richie’s arms to his chest. Richie is snoring (loudly), but nobody seems to mind.

And I have chronic insomnia, and can’t sleep. 

I pull my blanket over my head—and with my phone light, I read up some more about different species in my bird encyclopedia (which I have affectionately dubbed the Birdopedia), which I record in my notebook. I’m dutifully doing this until I get tired—until I hear a whisper, close to me: “Stan.”

I pop my head from underneath the the blanket to see Mike’s smiling face close to mine

(the haiku ask him about the haiku).

He’s _very_ handsome.

“Mike?” I whisper back—and I can’t help but to let a little smile play on my face. “What are still doing awake?”

“I can’t sleep,” he says, and pokes his lip out in a fake pout.

I nod my head a little. “Come here.” 

His eyes stutter up to mine again, and he looks really surprised at the invitation... but he scoots closer to me, anyway.

Being this close to him is making me realize a lot of things that I didn’t notice before, even in the dark. Just how pretty his eyes are, and his curly hair, and the smell of his cologne (that I find intoxicating in the recesses of my mind). We’re face-to-face. His smile grows a little wider. Seeming to hesitate on it, he grabs both of my hands; he slowly rubs his hands up and down my arms.

I flinch a little. His eyes don’t stutter this time—they snap up to meet mine, and his eyebrows are furrowed.

“I’m sorry. Should I stop?” He whispers.

“Oh, uh, no,” I whisper back, completely mortified. “No, don’t. You’re okay.”

“What _are_ these?” He asks. 

I know _exactly_ what he’s talking about: all of the scars running up and down my arms. The ones I wear long sleeves to cover. When we were all at the Barrens, I was sure that somebody was going to notice and call me a freak—but if anybody noticed, they sure as hell didn’t bring it up. 

I shake my head involuntarily, already feeling tears stinging my eyes and the back of my throat. The actual situation of somebody noticing and asking about the scars makes guilt and shame wash over me in huge waves. 

Mike’s voice is barely above a whisper now. “Hey. We can drop it, if you wanna... I’m sorry for asking.”

And for some reason, I can’t even get my voice above anything but a whisper. “No, don’t apologize, I _want_ to tell you, but just...” I feel the saltiness on my lips from those annoying tears. “They’re so _ugly_. I can’t.”

“ _Nothing_ about you is ugly, Stan.” He’s dropped his voice back to a whisper, he gently pulls me close to him, he strokes my hair and plants a light kiss on my forehead (one of the features that I hate the most about myself). “I really mean it. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, and I hate how my voice cracks—but I reciprocate the affection and bury my head into his chest. The first thing that I think is: _There’s nothing you can say to me now; I’m one hundred percent certain that he’s the one who wrote them. He_ has _to be._

The second thing is: _A good way to go out would be to drown in his cologne._

The last thing I hear, before I drift off, is Mike’s light snoring that mingles in with Richie’s. 

The last thing that I think is: _I want to kiss you, too._

We’re both asleep in under five minutes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wentworth: *points* is that one Eddie????


	5. eddie my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *tw for light homophobia!*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay and i should just rename THIS one the Reddie Chapter™️. what is my issue
> 
> i’m just here to say that y’all: i REALLY love the r+e from the movie

Everybody leaves my house early Sunday morning—and I’m sad to see them go; those Beautiful People. My folks went to church without me (I don’t really go too much anymore, anyway—because... well, y’know), just like Stan’s folks let him skip synagogue yesterday, to hang with us. I stayed to tell everyone goodbye as they left. I hug Bev, and ruffled Ben and Bill’s and Mike’s hair, and did our secret handshake with Stan the Man. But, before little Eddie Spaghetti leaves... I lightly pull him back by the shirt, and turn him around.

“What?” he asks. I’m happy to see that he’s not giving me too much bite-back—and how can he? His clothes still smell like me, and mine still smell like him.

I pull him into a hug, trying to use my sensibilities and not trying to be funny, and rock us side-to-side... even though the shit that I say really _does_ sound like a quip. “Thanks for last night, baby.”

“Yeah, whatever,” more bite-back—but of course, his heart’s not in it. “Now let me go before I catch hell from my mom.” But when I do try to end the hug, _he’s_ the one that’s stubborn and pulls me back in. He pushes us a little past the threshold of the front door—a little into the living room—and closes the door a bit behind us. Then, he surprises me: he steps on his tip-toes and kisses me on the cheek... right near the corner of _my fucking mouth._

Then he lets me go. “Bye.”

I blush and grin from ear-to-ear and wave like a lovesick fool. “ _Byeeee,_ Eddie Spaghetti! I’ll always remember you!”

He fully opens the door again (ignoring my antics), and trots down the front steps. He’s halfway to his mom’s car when he turns around, throwing me off again. He’s mouthing something—but I’m an amateur ventriloquist; I can read lips. He mouths: _When are we having our date?_

“Tonight,” I tell him, my face still afflicted with a dopey grin. Then, in since his mom can see me, I mouth back: _Tonight, my love._

He takes the bait this time—he blushes, and his mouth curls up into the cutest little smile, but just barely... 

but then ~~my~~ his impatient ass mother ~~in-law~~ honks the horn—and I can see, even from here, that her face is etched with an expression of impatience and anxiety. And slight disgust? She’s probably thinking: _Why in God’s name is my sweet little Eddie hanging out with a thug like_ him? 

...So Eddie turns away from me and trots the rest of the way to the car.

* * *

I’m trying to run through everything in my mind that I need to do for mine and Eddie’s date. I shower and change into some different clothes; finger curl my hair little so it’s not all over the place. And—get _this_ —last night, when we were cuddling, Eddie was gushing about how rugged I am, and rubbed his hands all over my face. So I’m not gonna shave.

Oh, yeah. And I load the things that I need to make this a Super Spectacular Date into the bed of my truck, too. 

I get quite a few texts from the rest of the Lover’s Club, in since neither Eddie or I can hold water and told everybody that Today Is the Day. 

**big bill:** I hear that u have a date w my son tonite. take care of him ;-)

**Stan the Man:** Good luck tonight. Use protection. 

**Haystack:** *sniff* my dude.... goin on a date.... they grow up so fast..... 

I snicker at these. Stan the Man always cracks me up—and good ole Haystack is a riot, too. 

**marshmallow:** gl rich!!! kiss him a lot!

**Mike n Ikes:** have fun on ur date! don’t do anything i wouldn’t do! ;)

And then, to put the icing on this beautiful cake, the man of the hour himself texts me—with solid evidence, in my mind, that he’s just as excited and nervous about this as I am:

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Everybody’s texting me good luck. You better make this worth my while. I’ll try to make it worth yours ♡

Dammit, I hate myself for how stupid and caught up I’m already getting, but like I said before: I’m _pretty sure_ I’m in love. So, as I’m looking at the message notification from him on my phone, I’m thinking: _I’ll make it worth your while, baby. I’ll be_ sure _to make it worth your while._

So, I’m still not really acclimated with this weird-ass town—so actually driving to la Casa de Kaspbrak is a little bit of a feat, even with GPS. They’ve got yield signs in places that don’t make sense, stop lights that seem like they take forever... it’s all just a fucking mess. But I finally get to his neighborhood—and I park a couple houses down, in the street. We don’t want little Eddie’s mom catching him sneaking out and telling him he can’t go out with a thug like me, now do we? 

By the time I walk to his house, I see that I have notifications:

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Richie

 ** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Did you forget about me???

Then, as I’m typing my reply, another one rolls in.

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Just fuck it... I’m going to sleep

So I speed it the fuck up and send my reply immediately.

**rich the bitch:** no wait! i’m outside ;-)

But maybe he won’t look at his phone—maybe he isn’t bluffing and he actually _is_ going to sleep. I can imagine him up there—dejected, putting on pajamas and washing his face. So, just in case he put his phone on silent or something... I sing him a little song, made by Yours Truly:

_“Eddie, Spaghetti _

_ Open your window pane _

_ Feeling that you’re mad at me _

_ Fills me with so much pain  _

_ I don’t mean to keep you waiting... _

_ Waiting for love... _

_ Oh, Eddie—”_

His window abruptly opens—and out pops his very adorable (and very annoyed-looking) face. He’s talking in this hushed whisper, but he hikes up the volume loud enough for me to hear him. “I got your message! Now shut up! My mom will hear you!”

Now, as we _all_ know by now, common sense and impulse-control are not really two of my favorite things. There’s a long string of vines growing near Eddie’s window and up and down the side of the Kaspbrak house. They seem strong enough to support me—I grab one of them and tug hard, and it doesn’t snap. So, I start climbing up to Eddie’s window. 

He’s loudly-shushed-whispering again. “Richie! What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

...but he grabs both of my arms anyway (and, now that I think about it, he was probably terrified that I was going to fall backwards make a Richie Painting in his yard), and he pulls me through the window. I go forward, he goes backward; we _both_ go tumbling into his room in a serious of arms and legs and hair. But we’re both laughing.

“You’re an idiot,” he’s saying. “A big-ass-fucking idiot.”

“But I’m _your_ idiot,” I proclaim (admittedly, dramatically). 

He blushes, but doesn’t say a word. Instead, he grabs my hand, pulls us both up and walks us over to his bed and sits us both down. 

“So... this is my room,” he says, and gestures all around us. There’s something almost timid about the way that he does it. 

God—I know that this is Eddie’s room and all, so what I’m about to say probably won’t make any sense... but there’s this deep and powerful essence of just... _Eddie,_ all throughout this room. I’m looking at his stuff. His desk with a MacBook with stickers all over it, his neatly made bed, his dark blue walls. His books, his clothes, his shoes. I feel connected to him in a new way that I haven’t been before. 

He’s got posters on his wall like Yours Truly, but just a completely different vibe all-together: he’s got Lady Gaga and Lorde and Amy Winehouse and Lana Del Rey. He’s got those glow-in-the-dark sticker decals, little small ones, right above his bed—and in the middle of them is white paint, that says: 

_ Son, I love you to the moon and back. _

_ —Dad _

It’s all so _him_. 

And I look at him, sitting on the bed—and he looks absolutely beautiful; every time I see him, shadows hit his face just right, highlights make him look like an angel. He’s looking back at me... but he’s pouting. 

“What had you late?” he asks. “I thought you stood me up.”

“I‘m sowwy,” I say. Then, I answer honestly—a guilty, but wholly apologetic, grin playing on my face. ”I got lost.”

Eddie nods his head. “Okay, fair enough. I’ll forgive you. Just this one time.”

I grab his hands and intertwine our fingers together. “Oh, really! You _do?_ ” He snatches his hands away. 

“Nope. You’re not out the dog house yet. I’m still a little mad at you.” 

“What can I do to get out the dog house, My Dear?” I’ve intertwined my own fingers together, my palms touching, and I’m shaking them back and forth in a fashion that screams _please forgive me!_ “You can beat me up, if you want. Do you worst! I’ll do _anything_ to make you not upset with me, My Darling!”

Oh, no—I’m probably going to regret saying that fully... because Eddie has a little smirk on his face. He draws his arm back and socks me, it seems, as hard as he can in _mine._

_“Ow!”_ I yell. That little minx—I’m sure that’s going to leave a bruise later. “ _Eddie!_ That actually _hurt!_ ”

But he’s laughing—so hard, he’s snorting—and he’s covering his mouth with both of his hands... and suddenly, I’m not so mad anymore. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you that hard!”

_“Yes, you did!”_ I yell—and I toss him backwards on his bed and just start Letting Him Have It. Not hard, of course; I’m barely hitting him. But he still screams and laughs and starts hitting me back, trying to defend himself—and it seems like he’s making an effort to not hit me as hard as he did the first time. I’m also trying to pin him down and tickle him—so he starts screaming and laughing again and saying “Stop! Stop!” until he follows it up with: “ _Okay!_ Truce!”

“Truce,” I agree, and I’m laughing, too; both of us are out of breath. I’m in between his legs now—and he takes one look at me, with that same cute little smile that he gave me before he left my house. And he grabs both sides of my face, and finally kisses me on the lips.

Of course I kiss him back... and maybe get a little too into it as well. I press up a little against him and trail down to nibble his neck, and he cranes his head up further and groans into mine.

“Rich,” he breathes, right in my ear—but he’s moaning it, lightly, like he’s telling me: _I want you to want me._

That. It was the moan. That’s what _really_ got me.

And here we are rocking into each other now—my hand up his shirt, his hands dancing up along mine...

...and we both break away and jolt up straight on the bed. 

If there was a Narrator documenting everything about my life, They would say: _The goddamn bastards didn’t even try to keep their voices down._

“Eddie?” A panicked, shrieky voice floats from downstairs. “Eddie bear, what’s wrong!? _Are you okay!?_ ”

I hear thunderous footsteps coming up the stairs. Eddie looks panicked as his old lady sounds; he’s tapping his foot, and his eyes are trying to look everywhere. “Hide! _Now!_ ” he whispers.

I shake my head. _“Where!?”_ I whisper back.

“I don’t know!” Eddie yell-whispers at me. “Just anywhere! My closet, I dunno!”

_“Eddie!!?”_ his mom sounds like she’s in the hallway now.

“Oh, I know!” I whisper—then, I drop down to the ground, and roll underneath the bed like Homer slid in those bushes on the Simpsons. Or like in Undertale, where you have to hide behind a Frisk-like lamp. I slide under right in the knick of time—because as soon as I’m situated, Mrs. Kaspbrak comes through the door.

“I came as fast as I can,” she’s saying. I guess she’s walking towards the bed, because I can feel the ground shaking heavily around me. “Are you okay, Eddie? I heard _screaming!_ did you hurt yourself!?”

“No—I’m okay, Mom,” he says. His voice is right above me. I imagine him, again: him sitting neatly on his bed with his legs crossed, still slightly trying to catch his breath. 

_“Are you sure!?”_ she asks.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Well... okay, I believe you,” she says—but the way that she said it, and the hesitation, makes me think that she really _doesn’t_ believe him. “I guess I’m going to bed, then. I love you, Eddie bear.”

“I love you too, Mommy.”

I hear the thunderous footsteps grow more and more distant—I feel the ground shaking around me less and less—and now I can breathe a breath of fresh air. Now that  I don’t fear falling through the floor. 

“You can come out now,” Eddie tells me.

I roll back from underneath his bed and sit back down on top of it—and we wait, in silence, until we hear Mrs. Kaspbrak’s door closed, followed by her loud snoring. As soon as we do... _we hightail it the fuck out of there_ through the window.

It’s only about a two minute walk to my truck once we get outside—and when we get there, I open the passenger door with a grin.

“Ohh, chivalry isn’t dead,” Eddie teases. 

“Because you brought it back, M’Sir,” I tease back.

Now, there’s one place in this town that I _don’t_ need GPS to know how to get to, and Eddie and I are going there right now. Before the Barrens, there’s a little park that leads to a bridge, that’s apparently called the Canal

(why does everything in this town have a weird-ass name?).

I know nobody’s going to be at the park at this time of night—or, at least, I’m 98% sure. The chances are, we really won’t be bothered by anybody because they’ll all be in their beds sleeping. Hopefully. I _really_ just want it to be me and him.

I park my truck in the park, get out, and walk around to the side to the passenger’s door to open it again. Eddie looks around the empty park, slightly confused—but he seems pleased, and even holds my hand. 

“What are we doing?” he asks, amused. “Star-gazing?”

“Yeah,” I answer honestly—and I grin as I climb into the bed of my truck. “ _And_ I’m gonna serenade you.”

He must think I’m joking—but he holds both of my hands so I can help him into the bed. “Pffft. _Really?_ ” But then, he sees my guitar that I packed (along with the blanket that I spread out in the bed, so our asses won’t be cold), and closes his mouth immediately.

“Wait. You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” I say... but then try to steel myself and not punk out and not act stupid as I actually do start singing him a song. This one’s not by Yours Truly, this time. I have an actual song in mind:

_ “Eddie my love, I love you so _

_ How I've waited for you you'll never know...” _

I take the time to look at him, and he looks so damn pretty in this lighting, _every_ lighting, and his hands are intertwined and he’s rested his head on top of them, and he has a big grin on his face. 

_ “Please Eddie, don't make me wait to long _

_ Eddie please write me one line _

_ Tell me your love is still only mine _

_ Please Eddie don't make me wait too long” _

_ You left me last September to return to me before long _

_ But all I do is cry myself to sleep, Eddie since you've been gone…” _

I waggle my eyebrows at him at the last part, in this teasing way that says _please don’t ever leave me!_ But he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s still got that big grin on his face—and suddenly, he throws himself at me and hugs me, bumping me a little into my back window. But it didn’t hurt—and even if it would’ve, I don’t really care, because Eddie’s happy. And it seems like he doesn’t even care that the song’s a little sad at the end... he doesn’t seem to mind at all. 

He kisses me again.

So now we’re swinging our intertwined hands together back and forth as we walk down the Canal. He’s a little paranoid at first _(“We’ve gotta be careful; this town is really homophobic”)_... but he warms up to holding my hand. We walk all to this 24 hour cafe and share a milkshake with two separate straws like they do in the movies. (Which the waitress doesn’t seem to mind, at least.) Then, as we’re crossing the bridge back to the park—in the same way we came, holding hands—Eddie raises my arm up quizzically.

“You’ve got a tattoo?” he asks me. It’s a little stick-and-poke heart that John did for me a couple of years ago, something that my mom was _pissed_ about. “I’ve never noticed before.”

“Oh yeah,” I reply—but then I grin and pull us a little closer together. “Maybe I can put an E there.”

Eddie stops walking in the middle of the bridge—and in since we’re holding hands, that stops us both. I look at him to figure out why he stopped for, and he says: “You _can_. Do it now, on the bridge.” He unclasps our hands, but a little smile is on his face. “You’ve got a Sharpie, don’t you?”

“I do,” I say excitedly—and look at this: it’s even a red one. “Eddie, you’re a _genius!_ Now my love you will be immortalized forever, Mi Amor.”

I go over to the edge of the bridge—and opening the Sharpie, I write a singular _E_ first, because I want to draw the heart second, so the E can be perfectly centered in the middle. I’m so concentrated on my plan, that _at first,_ I don’t notice when Eddie lightly takes the Sharpie out of my hand. 

“Here, let me see,” he says—and then, he writes _R +_ in front of the _E_ in his perfect handwriting, and surrounds it all with a perfect heart. “There we go. Now _my_ love is immortalized for _you,_ Mi Amor—”

But we both snap our heads up to see a few guys on the bridge—but I don’t feel threatened at all, because they’re quite a distance away. They’re all yelling _very pleasant_ things at us. One of them includes a lovely chant of: “Fairies! Fairies! Fucking _fairies!_ ”

Eddie looks at me, and I can tell in his eyes that he’s absolutely terrified. But I just grab his hand again. And we run—we run all the way to the other side of the bridge; all the way back to the park. I can’t help but to laugh. The whole thing is so chuckalicious to me: Eddie calling me _Mi Amor,_ me dropping the Sharpie in a haste, these dudes trying to ruin our good time. And me laughing seems to relax Eddie a lot, because he starts laughing, too... we run prance like literal mystical fairies into the night.

Back at home—after I drive Eddie back home, help him sneak into his window, and he gives a kiss goodnight—I replay everything we did tonight. I try to commit it all into memory. The way his room looks, how he hits like a boxer, his happy little smile when I played him a song. Him warning me not to backwash in our milkshake, even though I don’t at all. Writing our initials on the Canal. Just _being_ with Eddie. 

After I give a status report to our friends, 

**big bill:** How was it??

**rich the snitch:** perfect. it was perfect

and before I fall asleep, I see that my adorable little Eddie apparently feels the same exact way. 

** Eddie  ✿ ** **:** Okay, you win. You made it worth it ♡

 ** Eddie  ✿ ** _changed his name to_ **Eddie Spaghetti!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie, before he opened his window: is this dude SINGING


	6. impress me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess what i’m writing on again!!!
> 
> this whole quarantine thing is really sparking my desire to write again. wanna revisit an old plot next week babay!

I’m not going to lie: when Bev gave them their jackets, I was so happy for them to officially be a part of the club—but oh Lord, was I _freaking out._

That means I would see Stan all the time.

Daddy always says that there’s no way for humans, with our sin and mortality, to be perfect—but I think Stan transcends that. I think he’s an angel.

Well, I guess that means no more being a creep and staring at him wistfully from the cafeteria windows. That’s a good thing _and_ a bad thing—because I think I’ve made it obvious that those love notes are from me. Maybe I can finally tell him how I feel.

Speaking of which: love seems to be freaking _everywhere_. I can see it floating around Bill when he talks about Audra Phillips in the Theatre Club. I can see it floating around Richie and Eddie—who, after their date, are around each other _all the time._ I see them leaned up against Richie’s locker, and Eddie steps on his tiptoes and whispers something in his ear... a message, of which, puts the biggest smile on Richie’s face. There’s a look on Stan’s face that I can’t really place. I wonder what’s going on in that pretty little head of his; one with gears always turning. 

And last but not least, I see it floating around Ben—hastily, desperately—as he speed-walks up to me at my locker.

“Michael,” he hisses. 

I snap my head towards him. “Ben! What’s wrong?”

“I’mma tell you, but I’ve got a question first.” He drops his voice down a couple octaves, just to make sure that nobody can hear him. “How did those letters go?”

“Oh, I think he liked them,” I say, equally as low. My heart flutters at the thought of him hanging them on his wall, like I overheard him say. “But I think, maybe, he thinks they’re from Bill—”

_“Yes! Exactly!”_ Ben exclaims (and when more than a couple of people look our way, he shrinks back down again.) “That’s the problem. _Everybody_ fucking likes Bill.” 

I smile a little. “So I take it Operation Bev ain’t going so well?” 

“No! It isn’t!” he laments. “It’s already bad enough that I had to jump with her _and_ Bill at the Barrens. But now, she just found out that Bill is talking to Audra, and I think she’s upset about it.”

“Aw, geez.” I grab one of Ben’s shoulders and give it a light squeeze. “I think you’ll do okay. Just take your own advice and write her a poem.”

“Can’t do that,” Ben tells me, “if it’s gonna be as cheesy as that ‘Urisistable’ shit you wrote.”

“Man, _screw you!_ ”

Ben snickers. “Mike, we’re 16. You _do_ know you can say ‘fuck’, right?”

I roll my eyes, but with good nature—and as we walk to home room, I’m just glad that I’m able to help him smile a little.

* * *

It’s dark and rainy this afternoon, and we talk about our plans at lunch while, outside, thunder cracks and casts shadows on all our faces.

“So, were all set for bowling, right?” Bill asks. I look around and see everybody’s eyes trained on him. I have to admit, when everybody looks at him like that, I do feel jealousy seep into me. For the longest time, I felt... I dunno. Inferior? I don’t know if it’s because I was the last one to join the Lover’s Club, as the weird homeschool kid, or if because I’m black—but I always feel and felt like I have/had something to prove. To the majority-white kids at this school.

To pretty white boys like Stan.

Speaking of whom: he flips his pretty, dark curls out of his face when he says, “I dunno, Bill. I’ve gotta go to my dad’s this weekend.”

“Aww,” Bill pouts. “Your dad doesn’t live with you guys? Where’s he live?”

“My parents are divorced,” Stan explains. “He lives in Bangor.”

“Oh, shit... I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” And, with a slight smile (that, to me, has no humor in it): “They hate each other.”

“Well, there’s a bowling alley in Bangor,” Bill says—and his eyes flash with the bright hope of the seven of us all being able to go. “How about we just go to that one so Stan doesn’t have to miss out—does that sound good to you guys?”

Everybody nods—and I can see the little inkling of a smile on Stan’s face when he mutters out a “thank you”. I may be overreacting

(or feeling like I have something to prove),

but I still feel my heart shatter, if even just a little, in my chest.

It rains all week—and that seems to give the two lovebirds in our group more ammunition to cuddle. Richie has started to make it a habit, after him and Stan make a trip to their lockers, to walk Eddie to class... and I see the latter on with a jacket that I’ve never seen, that’s _much_ too big for him. It’s not even his style, really—it’s a black and white checkered windbreaker, with lavender elbows. But with the way that he’s nestled in it, he seems to love it.

“Whose jacket is that?” Bev asks, and grins. I already know with the way that Eddie rolls his eyes that he’s still going to dignify her with a response, even though we already know whose it is.

“It’s Richie’s,” he tells her simply. 

_“Oh?”_ she grins even more with delight. “So spill the tea, Kaspbrak. Are y’all dating, or what?”

And with _this_ , Eddie finally does break out into a little grin, even as he’s crossing his arms. “Maaaaybe.” I laugh, because in Kaspbrakian, that _maybe_ means _“definitely”._

But then—later that same day, Stan comes up to me and lightly grabs me by the arm.

“Mike,” he says, and I think it’s cute in the way that he sounds a little unsure of himself. “Can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure!” I say. But I frown in the way that his eyebrows are deeply furrowed on his face. “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?”

“Yeah,” he admits. He takes his hands and rubs his forearms with them, as if he’s cold. “I just... I dunno, it’s stupid. But I dunno who else to talk to.”

“I’m sure it’s not stupid, Stan,” I reassure him. He stutters his eyes up to meet mine—and I dare to wax poetic when I say that his eyes are the prettiest shade of brown I’ve ever seen. I decide to take a shot in the dark. “Is it about Richie?”

“Yes!” he stammers out—and the intensity of his affirmation gives me the impression that he feels relieved to admit it. “It’s just... it’s not his fault; we still hang out all the time. I just... it’s just like, ever since him and Eddie started dating, I’ve been feeling...”

“Jealous?” I offer up.

He looks like he feels guilty. “Yeah. Jealous.”

I grin, hoping my humor doesn’t make the situation any worse than what it is. “What, you got a little crush on Richie?”

But thankfully, it sticks—because Stan breaks out into a full grin and shakes his head. _“Fuck no.”_ His eyebrows furrow again. “I dunno what it is. I guess it’s just that Eddie’s so cool, and _way_ more fun to hang out with than _me_. And I know how people can get like when they’re in relationships...”

He says the last part so quietly that I almost have to lean in to hear him. “...I just don’t want to get replaced.”

_“Aw, Stan!”_ I say, and pull him into a little hug. At first, he seems stiff enough that I try to pull away—but he gently pulls me back in. “I don’t want you to think that. Richie would have to be a _fool_ to replace a guy like you. Well, more of a fool than what he already is.”

It makes me so happy: hearing Stan’s giggle, feeling his curls brush up against my jawline, and feeling like I never want to let him go.

“I’m glad that we decided on something that’s inside,” Eddie is saying, “Because I don’t wanna get sick.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Stan adds.

We all pile out of Richie’s truck again like we’re in a little clown car, and we all run into the bowling alley under the protection of Bev’s red umbrella. After shaking and shivering and paying our way through, we start the first game. 

“You guys are gonna get your asses _handed_ to you,” Richie says with a devilish grin. “I’m the bowling king _,_ babay!”

“Well I’m the bowling _queen_ , bitch,” Bev challenges back, and everybody breaks out into little laughs.

Admittedly, I’m not the best at bowling (God did not bless me with that ability), but I actually do pretty well on the first and second games. For some reason, I thought that Richie was kidding with what he said—but he actually does rival Bev in her bowling abilities. She was our bowling star in this group—but _now_ , I think she’s met her match. She beats Richie in the first game, but then he beats her in the second and third. She beats him in the forth. 

“2-2, Tozier,” she says, her eyes flashing with that familiar competitiveness. “Let’s play one more game to settle the score.”

“You’re _on,_ sista,” he fires back... and, with a grin, uses his index finger to tap on his lips. “Gimme a good luck kiss, Eds.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eddie tells him—but obliges and gives him a kiss, anyway.

“You think using your boyfriend as a good luck charm is gonna help you beat me?” Bev says, and smirks. _“I smell cap.”_

“There ain’t no cap _here_ , sis!” Richie exclaims—and with that, they start the game, while the rest of us watch. 

It ends in a tie.

After Richie and Bev’s all-out brawl (which achieved pretty much absolutely nothing), we resumed to scheduled programming. Eddie and Stan decide to sit out for a game (because the former’s mom called him and the latter was getting a headache)—and I decide to go ahead and sit that one out, too. I think I showed out enough. 

I sit across from Stan, whose the only one sitting at the table (because Eddie is still on the phone—honestly, how long can Ms. Sonia talk?), and offer him some Ibuprofen. He thanks me and takes a couple. 

“Is there any particular reason on why you’re so nice to me?” he asks—and I must be hallucinating when I think it sounds like he’s flirting. That’s the only logical thing I can think of— _especially_ when I lean into him more, and grin from ear-to-ear.

“Because you deserve it, Stan,” I tell him. 

“Really?” he asks. I can still hear those teasing inflections in his tone. “It’s not for _any other reason?_ ”

“Hm?” I ask him, even though I already know what he’s implying. He’s found me out. I think it’s better just to play dumb. “What do you mean?”

“Because I’m not the _only_ person that seemed a little jealous earlier. And, you’re almost as good at bowling as Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I didn’t know you were that good. Were you trying to impress me?”

I’m silent for a moment. But then, I sigh. “Dang. Am I _really_ that obvious?”

But it’s worth the little bit of mortification to see his entire face light up into a grin; to hear his voice shoot up a couple of octaves when he says, “Mike, _how cute._ ” And then: the smile fades a little off his face until there’s just a ghost of a smile there, and he stares at me for a really long time. “Okay, so can I ask you a question?” he asks.

“Of course.” I try to brace myself for it.

“I know this is gonna sound crazy, and you may not even know what I’m talking about... but are you the one who wrote—”

Thunder strikes outside in a deafening crack, briefly lighting up the entire bowling alley... and that’s _all_ of our cue to wrap it up, and to drive back to Derry before the storm gets any worse.

Richie drops us all off at home—and I don’t have any chores outside today in the midst of all the rain. So I warm up dinner, eat, and then kiss my parents goodnight.

“You’re a good boy, Mikey,” Daddy tells me. He’s looking more and more tired these days... I _really_ hope mall the tests come back negative. “But go upstairs, now. Me and your Mama gotta make you a sibling.”

I laugh and grimace. “Ew, Dad! _Gross!_ ”

Mama swats Daddy lightly in the arm with her free hand. “Boy, _shut up_. Mikey, don’t pay him no mind. But do go upstairs and go shower, baby. We got church in the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. (And then I give her another hug... but not because I’m a Mama’s Boy or anything. I just love my mom.)

So I go upstairs, shower, and put on nothing but a pair of boxer briefs so I can head to bed. But first... I pull out my phone and send a quick message.

**Mike n Ikes:** hey stan?

By this time, I would’ve thought that Stan would be asleep— but I get a message a couple minutes later. 

**Stan the Man:** Yes, Mike? 

**Mike n Ikes:** what were u gonna ask me at the bowling alley? 

**Mike n Ikes:** b4 we left?

Even though I can feel my heart pounding hard in my chest, I smile at his response... because I’m the king at dodging questions like this, so I’m almost _certain_ he’s lying. 

**Stan the Man:** Hm. You know what? I don’t  remember. :(

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bill: *sneezes* was somebody talking about me?


End file.
